“Vices?” Raefe said scornfully. Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright
“Vices?” Raefe said scornfully.
“And what would you describe this as?” he continued. “Aboveboard and openhanded? Honest? To change your name and masquerade as someone you’re not in order to worm your way into a household where you know damn well you’re the last person who would be wanted?” The gray of Raefe’s eyes resembled cold steel as he added, “And that brings us to why you did it.”
The awkward question, of course, Francesca acknowledged, and paused before answering. It proved to be a fatal mistake.
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Look out next month for.
A Daughter for Christmas
by Cathy Williams (#1993)
Accidental Nanny
Lindsay Armstrong
CHAPTER ONE
SHE was about five feet six and in her early twenties, he judged, with a fine carriage that displayed a slender neck, straight shoulders and breasts that bounced beneath the yellow silk of her shirt like tantalising fruit as she jumped out of a dusty Land Rover. Her waist was small, her hips compact, her legs, in blue jeans, long. She also had an imperious air and glorious toffee-coloured hair. Then she spoke, and there was absolute assurance in her cultured vowels—the inborn ease of someone who had been used to having all and sundry do her bidding from her cradle...
Raefe Stevensen narrowed his eyes then raised a wry eyebrow. So it’s true, he mused. She has been up on Wirra. He paused and watched the girl toss her head as she spoke to the man who had driven her. I can guess why she’s here—and expecting me to drop everything, no doubt. He watched a moment longer, then deliberately reached for the telephone.
Francesca Valentine jumped down from a battered Land Rover and looked around intently. There was not a lot to see—one prefabricated building, a hangar, one runway with a limp airsock, two light planes and a helicopter parked on the apron. Her deep blue eyes brightened at the sight of the aircraft, however, and she turned to the driver of the Land Rover, flicking her toffee-coloured hair back. ‘This’ll do, Jim. You don’t need to wait around. You’ll be wanting to get back to the station before the road is flooded anyway.’
‘Well...’ The driver, a dusty, middle-aged man, hesitated. ‘I don’t like to leave you, Miss Valentine. Your father—’
‘Jim, so long as there are planes, I can get myself flown out.’
‘But just in case you can’t,’ Jim persisted. ‘This is a very small town, Miss Valentine. There’s only one pub where you could stay and you wouldn’t—well, it’s not what you’re used to. Cattlemen, drovers, truckies and the like,’ he added with deep significance. ‘Your father—’
‘If you mention my father once again, Jim, I’ll scream. It was his idea that I spend some time on Wirra Station; therefore, even if indirectly, it’s his fault that I’m all but stranded here!’
‘He couldn’t have organised this flood,’ Jim replied reasonably. ‘And it wasn’t his fault the chopper conked out on us at a time like this.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Francesca said darkly, but added, ‘Look, surely it’s easier for you not to have me to worry about on top of everything else? I mean, you’re going to have enough on your plate as it is, what with moving stock around let alone yourselves if the waters get up to the homestead.’
Jim sighed and said cautiously, ‘We could be cut off for weeks, I guess.’
‘Exactly! The other thing is, once I get home, I can pull all sorts of strings towards getting you parts flown up to repair the helicopter,’ Francesca finished triumphantly.
‘OK, Miss Valentine, if you say so,’ Jim relented suddenly, and got out to heave her bag off the back seat. ‘I’ll just carry this to the office for you.’
‘I can do it.’ Francesca wrested her bag from him and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Jim. I do appreciate your concern, and I hope I wasn’t too much of a... time-waster for you. I shall certainly report back that Wirra is in good hands.’
‘Cheerio, Miss Valentine. As for being a time-waster—well, I doubt if those lads have enjoyed themselves as much for years once they got used to...certain things, so don’t you worry your pretty head about it.’ As he shook her hand vigorously he appraised not only her pretty head but also her shapely figure with a genuine and kindly appreciation that gave no offence. ‘You’re a right card at times, Miss Valentine,’ he added. ‘A real chip off the old block—and it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Not too much of a chip, I hope,’ Francesca murmured,
